


Babysitting Hamish

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cake, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Hamish is mischievous, M/M, Mycroft is grumpy but caring, Pirates, Reader is challenged, fun times, sexual references but no sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 00:16:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6493450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and you look after Hamish for the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Babysitting Hamish

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hope you enjoy this. :) If you've not long since read the final part to the You're Broken and He's Beautiful series then this should cheer you up. :) 
> 
> Thanks as ever for your support. :)

The spring sunshine filters through the patio doors of the expensive Kensington home, illuminating a grey pinstripe suit wearing Mycroft Holmes who’s just had breakfast and is now attempting to peacefully while away the time behind a Sunday newspaper.

 

You, wearing a blue and white floral top along with jeans, walk into the kitchen. 

 

Mycroft, sensing your presence, but still hiding behind his newspaper, murmurs, “I still don’t know why you volunteered our services.”

 

“I wouldn't expect you to,” you say in a bit of a tight voice as you go across to get a bowl from the cupboard. 

 

Mycroft lowers his paper from the political analysis section and looks at you. Your shoulders look hunched even though you’re walking more upright than usual. You’re clearly feeling both troubled and determined. You pause in between pouring your cereal. Clearly more troubled then. He clears his throat. Your hand, which had just been about to tip some more cereal into the bowl falters, before it continues what it had set out to do.

 

“If you’re not feeling well my love then I could always ring John and cancel. We've never babysat before after all, and I hear that children can be quite demanding.” 

 

Your grip tightens on the cereal box. You’re sure that Mycroft would love nothing more than for you to tell him to call John and cancel. He’s been complaining about the intrusion into his precious weekend time for weeks, ever since you had first suggested the idea and ever since you had then gone to John about it behind your boyfriend’s back. “No,” you breathe, lowering the box back down onto the counter. “Like I’ve said before, I think it will be good for your nephew to spend a day with us. He’s six, and to think that he’s never spent one _single,_ full day with us before is”-

 

“But if you’re not feeling well”- Mycroft pushes tentatively. 

 

“The only reason I'm _not_ feeling well,” you say, whirling around and jabbing your spoon at him, “Is because you've been so resistant to the idea. I know you don’t want children. You've made that _quite_ plain”-you take a breath and grip onto the counter -“But would it really kill you to make more of an effort with your nephew?”

 

Mycroft opens his mouth, but the doorbell rings just a moment later. He swallows. 

 

“That’ll be John,” you breathe, sending your boyfriend a bit of a calculating look, before you hurry out of the room. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and takes the opportunity to slouch off into the study with his newspaper. He can hear your fake cheery calls and hear the soft sound of John no doubt checking whether you’re still all right for today, along with the excited, energetic voice of Hamish, who no doubt looks as much like Sherlock as he ever has. Mycroft looks at the clock from where he’s now seated in his wing-back chair by the empty, black fireplace and sighs. Half-past eight and already his Sunday is ruined. Why you’d had to suggest this is beyond him. He supposes that it’s another one of your foolish attempts to warm him up to the idea of having children. He frowns. You've been together six years, and though you’re not married he knows that in your eyes you see the relationship as being a long-term one and full of possibilities like marriage and… _children._ It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to ask you to marry him, he thinks. It’s just that he knows if he did what your next expectation would be, and having children has never been something that Mycroft Holmes has envisioned. He sighs. 

 

The door of the study opens, letting in a draught of cold air along with both Hamish and you. Mycroft pulls the newspaper up to his eyes, not noticing that he’s in the sport section. 

 

“Ah Hamish, there’s your Uncle,” you say pointedly, as if both the little boy and you have been trailing the whole house for him. 

 

Mycroft frowns and sends you a bit of a disapproving look. He’d rather been hoping that you’d leave him to his own devices and not involve him in any of this. 

 

Knowing such a thing you give him an equally pointed stare. 

 

“Uncle, I thought you were playing hide and seek,” Hamish says with a perceptive look that shows an intelligence far beyond his years, and which also shows that he believes no such thing. 

 

You let out a mocking laugh. “If that was the case Hamish then we would never have found him hiding behind the _sport_ section.”

 

Mycroft clears his throat, frowns and ruffles his paper importantly; before he lowers it to give you a quelling look and his nephew a forced smile. “Hello Hamish, and no, despite the opinion of others I _was_ trying to read. It’s amazing what political metaphors you can find lurking about the sport section.” 

 

You make a disbelieving sound in your throat. You know full well that he’s never lowered himself to reading the sport section in his life, and you have little reason to suppose that he would now. Hamish looks at you. You clear your throat and wrap an arm around the little boy’s shoulders, hoping that he hasn't noticed the tension between his uncle and you. Hamish with his bee rucksack, blue t-shirt, navy shorts and white socks looks the sudden picture of innocence as he stands next to you. Mycroft's not convinced. He eyes the boy suspiciously. 

 

“Talking about games,” you begin, “What sort of games do _you_ like to play Hamish?” Mycroft rolls his eyes. You’re already trying too hard. 

 

“Dissecting frogs and experimenting with Father’s chemicals mostly,” Hamish says, again with that air of mischief hiding behind that fake innocence. You look as if you should have expected such a thing. Mycroft tuts and rolls his eyes. “But Lego’s good too,” Hamish adds with the flair of someone adding a punch line, before he pulls off his rucksack and draws the zip back. He tips out a whole load of the little plastic bricks onto the oval patterned rug that’s in front of the fireplace. Mycroft grimaces at the mess and folds his legs. 

 

You eye your boyfriend warily. “Right,” you say, running your hand back through your h/c hair and obviously trying to claw back some control, “I’ll”-

 

The phone rings. 

 

You swallow and wave a hand at Mycroft, “Can you just?”- a jerk of your head indicates Hamish. Mycroft nods irritably and you fly out of the room. The eldest Holmes can hear you talking to Molly a moment later. He takes a deep breath and goes back to his newspaper. 

 

For a while the two Holmes's-connected by blood and separated by age and years of experience-co-exist quite peacefully. Mycroft continues to read and the soft click-clack of fingers pushing bricks together tells him that Hamish is getting along with his task quite authoritatively. But then Mycroft slips into a lull where the words begin to blur in front of him and thoughts start to overtake his mind. He thinks of Hamish and you and wonders what fresh hell the day will bring him. Suddenly he realizes that things have become silent. He stiffens, before he attempts to covertly peek over the top of his newspaper. The Lego has been left unattended on top of the rug. All he can see of Hamish is a pair of knobbly knees sticking up into the air like two snow-capped mountains. Apparently the boy is close. Mycroft uncrosses his legs in the most casual manner that he can and begins to lower his foot-

 

_“Aaaah!”_ Hamish squeals. 

 

Mycroft puts his paper on his lap and leans forwards, his foot still in the air and his long fingers curling around the arms of his chair as he looks down. 

 

You come running into the room. “What on earth”- you say, the phone still in your hand. You take in the sight of Hamish on the floor and Mycroft’s foot mere inches from his face.

 

“Uncle’s trying to crush me!” Hamish exclaims in a horrified voice, turning his head a fraction so that he might be able to look at your shoes. His nose threatens to brush against the bottom of Mycroft’s black, polished shoe as he does so. 

 

“I was merely trying to get up,” Mycroft says breezily, looking at you as if he can’t see what all the fuss is about. 

 

You eye both Holmes's suspiciously. “Molly, I'm going to have to go,” you say into the phone. You hang up with a click. Your eyes are still on Hamish and your boyfriend. 

 

“Father says that you weigh a lot, maybe as much as a humpback whale, so to be crushed by you would be awfully painful,” Hamish says matter-of-factly, as if he’s re-citing something that he’s learnt from memory. 

 

Mycroft's foot slips closer to the boy’s face. 

 

_“Mycroft!”_ you gasp, darting forwards. 

 

“Just trying to get up dear,” Mycroft says, looking casually over at you, though he lifts his foot further away from his nephew's face all the same. Hamish snorts. He can tell who's the boss in this house. 

 

You swallow. Inhale. Exhale. _Breathe._ “Hamish, if you can get up then perhaps you’d like to come and help me in the kitchen for a little while? I was thinking that we could make a cake that you can take home to your parents.”

 

Mycroft frowns. He doesn’t approve of cake leaving the house. 

 

“What sort of cake?” Hamish asks petulantly, his breath hitting Mycroft's shoe. 

 

“Hmm,” you pretend to consider. Your eyes dart to Mycroft. “I was thinking a big chocolate one with strawberries.” Mycroft frowns. God dam you. You know that's one of his favourites. 

 

_“Yay!”_ Hamish yells at the top of his voice, deafening Mycroft and making him wince, before he slides to the back of his chair. The boy runs out of the room. 

 

You give Mycroft a pointed look of triumph, before you turn away and follow after Hamish. You stick your nose in the air and Mycroft gets the sneaking suspicion that you’re making fun of his sometimes pompous ways as you do so. 

 

He takes a moment to take a deep breath. Is it too early to have a glass of scotch? Would anyone blame him? He shifts forwards with the intention of having a drink anyway. It’s then he notices that Hamish has undone the laces on one shoe and nearly pulled them clean. _Insolent_ child! Mycroft re-fits them and leans back in his chair, abandoning the prospect of a drink and going back to his newspaper. He gets the feeling that he needs to make the most of any peace that he can have. 

 

*

 

“Why's Uncle Mycroft so miserable?” is the first thing Hamish asks once he's sitting on top of the kitchen island and watching as you pull out everything you'll need for the cake. 

 

You pause from where you're crouched down considering which mixing bowl to use. You're tempted to tell the boy that his guess is as good as yours. But in the end you opt for, “Oh, he's just very busy that's all, so busy that he likes a peaceful life when he can get it.” 

 

“But _we're_ not stopping him,” Hamish says, and when you look over your shoulder at him you see that he's got a cheeky smile on his face. 

 

“No we're not,” you smile conspiratorially, before you pull out the biggest bowl that you have. 

 

Hamish slides off the kitchen island with a grin. 

 

*

 

Cooking with Hamish turns out to be an unique experience. When it comes to the measuring of the ingredients he's as careful and precise as can be, to the point where he tells you off when you make to add a fraction more flour. But when it comes to tipping all the ingredients in the bowl he's a complete liability. Puffs of flour go up into the air, staining your face, the cupboards and the surfaces. Then part of an egg slips out of the bowl and onto the floor. You grimace, thankful that Mycroft isn't there. 

 

“Try and be more careful okay?” you tell Hamish.

 

“Okay,” Hamish beams, before he begins to mix the ingredients in the bowl recklessly with a wooden spoon. You groan, grab a cloth and begin to attend to the egg on the floor. Mycroft, as much as you hate to admit it, was right, children _are_ demanding. “Mycroft’s my uncle isn't he?” Hamish asks suddenly, bringing you out of your thought. 

 

“Uh huh,” you mutter as you scrape at the floor with the cloth and wonder where Hamish is going with this. 

 

“But you're not my Aunt are you?”

 

_Ah._ “No love,” you reply, still scrubbing at the floor, “I'm not.”

 

“Daddy said that I shouldn't talk to strangers,” Hamish says, stepping back. 

 

You look up at him to see that he’s stopped mixing and is biting at his lip uncertainly. His free arm swings back and forth.

 

“Your dad’s right about that,” you tell him, standing up, “But I'm not a stranger, I'm your Uncle Mycroft’s girlfriend.” _And God damn it I’d be more if I had my way._

 

“But I still don't know you,” Hamish persists as you go and rinse the cloth out. “And what am I supposed to call you? I can’t call you ‘Uncle Mycroft’s girlfriend,’ that takes far too long.”

 

You look back at him. Your lip twitches as you remember a Christmas long ago and Mycroft telling his mother off for shortening his name. 

 

_“What?”_ Hamish asks, his face indignant, as if he thinks that you're making fun of him. 

 

“Nothing,” you say absent-mindedly, putting the cloth back onto the counter, “Just remembering something that's all.” Hamish pulls a face that's reminiscent of the one Sherlock had pulled when he'd first learnt that you were dating his brother. “Whilst we're on the subject though you can call me F/N.”

 

Hamish nods as if that suits him quite well. He sidles up to you, mixing the ingredients again. “Can I ask you something then F/N?”

 

You look at him in surprise. His young face looks serious. “Of course you can,” you tell him, barely hesitating and thinking that he’s going to ask for your advice. You feel pleased that he already thinks he can go to you. 

 

“Good,” he says, stepping back. “Because Father said that Uncle Mycroft and you would definitely know the answer to this one, but since Uncle Mycroft's being all moody today”-you open your mouth-“I think I'll just ask you instead.”

 

“Okay,” you say more uncertainly. 

 

“Where do babies come from?” 

 

You start and your shoulders jerk back as if you’re a puppet on a string. Your face goes red without you being able to help it. _“Umm…”_

 

“Father said that you would definitely know,” Hamish persists, “Because you go there a lot, but I wasn't sure because Uncle Mycroft and you don’t have any children do you?”-You shake your head-“I asked Daddy about it and he said that I probably shouldn't say that to you. But I thought that I would because Father's often more right than Daddy.” 

 

“And your Uncle Mycroft's often more right than either of them”- comes none other than the British Government’s voice. 

 

Hamish drops the bowl. You jump back as the mixture goes everywhere. 

 

_“Aaaah!”_ Hamish yells melodramatically, before he turns, hurries forwards and slides the patio doors open, rushing out into the large, rectangular garden. 

 

“Hamish! Hamish! Come back!” you whirl around after him, before you turn to the mess on the floor with despair in your eyes. 

 

“Still want to have children?” Mycroft says from where he's leaning against the door casually with folded arms. 

 

“I was doing fine until you came in and scared him,” you snap back angrily. 

 

“If by fine then you mean that you were getting flustered at the most obvious of embarrassing questions then yes, my dear, you were doing quite splendidly,” Mycroft replies with a smirk, before he turns around. 

 

You scowl at his back, and you feel, quite frankly, like bending down and lobbing some of the mixture at him. 

 

“That boy's already got you wrapped around his finger,” Mycroft says.

 

“He wouldn't be the first Holmes to,” you reply a little defensively. You whirl around and cry out, _“Hamish!”_ before you run out after him, ignoring the mess that’s on the floor. 

 

Mycroft takes two more steps towards his study. “And you've got me wrapped around yours,” is what he sighs out, before he turns back and attempts to clean up the mess in the kitchen. 

 

*

 

Hamish is spinning in a circle in the middle of the garden, his arms outstretched. 

 

“Can we play pirates? Can we play pirates?” he asks, nearly toppling into you as you join him. 

 

“Erm”- you begin, thinking that you should really be cleaning up the mess in the kitchen. 

 

“Please F/N!” Hamish begs. His hands press into your stomach as he looks up at you imploringly. “Father said that I'd never be allowed to play pirates here”-

 

“Why on earth did he say that?”

 

“He said that Uncle Mycroft’s a big, fat meanie, which I'm _definitely_ starting to think is true”- a pang fills you-“And that you'd never want to play because you only ever go along with what Uncle Mycroft wants to do.” The pang leaves you, replaced by determination. 

 

“He did, did he?” you growl, thinking that you'll have to get Sherlock back for that little remark when you next see him. “All right,” you say, “Pirates it is.”

 

Hamish lets out a whoop of joy. Then he goes running around the garden like a dog on a scent as he tries to find two sticks that you can use as swords. He only finds one, and he snaps it in half, before he runs back to you. He hands it to you with the utmost care. “Now,” he says, “I'm going to teach you how to sword fight since you’re a girl and you wouldn't know how to do any of that stuff”-

 

“What makes you think that girls can’t fight Captain Holmes?” you ask with a quirk of your eyebrows. 

 

“Ah, a rebel! I know you!” Hamish cries, “You're F/N, the black hearted daughter of the most fiercest pirate in the land! I'll get you!” He wastes no time in trying to pretend to stab you with his stick. 

 

You block his move with your own and the two of you get engrossed in the fight, muttering and moving about in a circle. 

 

Mycroft, crouched down by the kitchen floor, finds that he keeps looking out at you both. His mind becomes distracted from the task he's supposed to be doing every time he hears you laugh, or hears a squeal coming from Hamish. Once he's finally restored the kitchen back to order he moves towards the open patio doors, so that he can properly watch you. He folds his arms as Hamish's brow furrows in concentration and watches as you continue to block his every move. He smiles without being able to help it. You've always been able to hold your own. Suddenly, just with your laugh and your pretty flushed face, your h/c hair bobbing loosely around your head, you've got him imagining a scene where you're not playing with Hamish, but your own son or daughter. It would be on a Sunday like this, and he would be home, and watching as he is now. Perhaps he'd move forwards, pick you up and swing you around in his arms. Your child would laugh, and your eyes would be sparkling as you looked at him. Mycroft shakes his head. God damn you for always somehow getting him to imagine things he'd never thought of, and God damn you for looking so beautiful right now. A white butterfly flits past and he watches as your head turns a fraction. He smiles, but a split-second of both time and your concentration is lost. The smile slips off Mycroft’s face as Hamish darts forwards and pretends to stab you. 

 

You, realizing what Hamish has done, let out a great, muffled cry of pretend pain, before you go down, first on your knees and then onto your back. Mycroft frowns. He's not particularly enjoying this part of the story. 

 

Hamish, however, lets out a roar of triumphant laughter. 

 

You laugh too and suddenly the smile's back on Mycroft’s face. He lets out a relieved breath and watches as you push your head back down against the short, stubby grass. Your eyes slowly become aware of him and Mycroft gives you a tight smile. You jerk upwards and get hastily to your feet. You brush yourself down. Mycroft frowns. There's something wrong with you, _between_ you, that the time he's spent away from you in the house hasn't solved. Had he gone too far with you in the kitchen? He feels suddenly worried. 

 

“Can we play again?” Hamish asks, his face still flushed with delight from his victory. 

 

“Maybe some other time,” you mutter as you start acting like the twenty-seven year-old you are, rather than the six-year-old you’d felt like. You head inside and brush past Mycroft without a word. 

 

He swallows and swivels to face you. You're _definitely_ not happy with him. “I took the liberty of cleaning the kitchen,” he informs you at the same time Hamish comes bounding inside, his hair bouncing atop his head. 

 

“Thank you,” you mutter as you open the fridge door and look for the orange juice. You pull it out and pour some for Hamish. You deliberately don't ask Mycroft if he wants any. 

 

The boy steps forwards and takes his glass from the table. He takes a long, big gulp of it, before he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks up at Mycroft and says, “You don't like each other much do you? For people who live together? Daddy and Father kiss all the time. I was rather thinking that you'd be the same, but you haven't done it once.”

 

You stiffen from where you're hunched over as you put the juice back. 

 

Mycroft, noticing such a thing and feeling uncomfortable because of it, says, “Hamish, why don't you come with me?” 

 

His nephew looks at him suspiciously. “Okay,” he says, before he adds, “As long as you don't try and get me to spy on my parents. I don’t care how much you pay me, I'm not doing that.” He finishes his drink and places his glass back down on the table. 

 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows at Hamish's question, “I had no intention to ever ask you such a thing"-you snort-"You've got quite a suspicious mind for one so young haven't you?” 

 

Hamish shrugs and looks at his uncle disbelievingly. You find that you think Hamish has got every right to be suspicious of his uncle, and you survey Mycroft most seriously as he turns to lead the little boy out of the kitchen.

 

“She's angry with you,” Hamish points out as he trails after his uncle. 

 

“I am aware,” Mycroft says in a long-suffering tone. 

 

Hamish, feeling encouraged, walks even closer behind his uncle and asks, “Is it because you don't have any children?”

 

“No,” Mycroft swallows, trying not to clench his hands, “I expect it's just”-

 

“If I knew where they come from then I could help you,” Hamish says. 

 

“I'm not certain that you could,” Mycroft replies with a bit of a sigh as he leads the little boy into the study. The Lego is still strewn about. Mycroft frowns. 

 

“I'm sure I could,” Hamish insists, as Mycroft goes across to the filing cabinet, “I'm a great adventurer. That's what Daddy says, so if I knew where they come from then I would go there, get one and bring him or her back to you. F/N would be happy then wouldn't she?” 

 

Mycroft, feeling oddly touched, pauses from where he’s been stretching to lift off an old, dusty looking cardboard box from the top of the filing cabinet. “Well,” he says, looking down at the little boy, “As much as I appreciate the gesture, and as much as I'm sure that it would make F/N happy, that's still something that would be very difficult for you to do. But perhaps we can make F/N happy in another way hmm?” Hamish steps forwards, looking eager and determined. “Take this from me,” Mycroft says, passing Hamish the box. 

 

Hamish pulls a face at the weight that his arms now find themselves carrying, but he follows his uncle diligently back to the kitchen nonetheless. 

 

You've made a start on making lunch. You've currently got your back turned as you rummage in the cupboard for a saucepan. Mycroft looks at you with a hopeful sort of tentativeness as he leads Hamish to the table. “Now put it down there,” he tells the boy, “Yes, that’s right,” he says once Hamish has deposited the box. “Now Hamish, what do you suppose is in there?”

 

Hamish's brow furrows as he stares at the box in concentration. “Something old?” the boy finally suggests. 

 

“Old yes, it used to belong to your Father.” 

 

“My _father?”_ Hamish asks with wonder in his eyes. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft replies softly, and he believes that he's quite unmistaken in seeing a brief quirk of your lips as you make to fill the saucepan with water. Spurred on Mycroft beckons Hamish even closer to the table. “Why don't you open it?” he asks. 

 

Hamish looks in between him and the box for a moment. Then, with a resolute look of determination in his eyes, he nods. 

 

As the boy goes forwards Mycroft moves back. He catches you looking over your shoulder at the scene with curiosity in your eyes and gestures for you to come and watch. After a moment's uncertainty you put the saucepan aside, dry your hands and join him. Mycroft puts an arm around your waist. Then, in a rare show of public affection, he turns his head and presses a quick kiss to the base of your neck. You look at him in surprise. “I do love you, you know that don't you?” he asks quietly, so that only you can hear him, “No matter what I say”-

 

“I know,” you reassure him breathily. A look of relief fills Mycroft's eyes. 

 

“Wow,” Hamish utters as he pulls out a large toy pirate ship from the box. Both of you turn your heads to look at him. 

 

Hamish looks at you both in astonishment with a wide grin plastered on his face. 

 

Mycroft's fingers tighten around your waist. You let out a breath that you didn't even realize you’d been holding. 

 

Hamish rests the pirate ship model down carefully on the table and turns his attention back to the box. He tips out all the minute hand-painted figures. “Wow Uncle Mycroft, this is amazing,” he says, looking around again, before he hurriedly turns back so that he can begin to examine each figure. 

 

“Amazing and all yours I think now,” Mycroft tells him with a tight smile.

 

_“Really?”_ Hamish asks, his eyes lighting up noticeably as he looks around. Mycroft nods. “Wow thanks Uncle Mycroft,” Hamish says. He drops the figure that he'd been examining back onto the table and whirls around properly so that he can hug him. 

 

An awkward smile immediately fills Mycroft’s face. His hand leaves your waist to rest on his nephew's back. 

 

Felling suddenly proud you teeter in your position for a moment, before, all decided, you lean across, place a hand on your boyfriend's shoulder and kiss him on the cheek, your other hand going to Hamish’s back. 

 

Hamish smiles as he pushes his head into Mycroft's stomach. 

 

A faint smile crosses Mycroft's own face, before he and his nephew pull away from one another. 

 

Both Holmes's go and sit by the table, whilst you resume cooking. You smile over at them every so often as you hear Mycroft telling Hamish about each individual figure and which ones his father had loved best. 

 

“There aren't any girl ones,” Hamish announces, looking a bit downcast. 

 

“No there aren't,” Mycroft begins, “But if you look around the kitchen then you might realize that we have a life-sized figure of a female pirate right here.”

 

You-washing up now-try not to smile too much at this, but fail gloriously. 

 

Hamish grins. “She’s the best pirate out of them all isn't she Uncle Mycroft? Better than all the boys?”

 

You look across enquiringly at Mycroft, and you feel sure that you're not mistaken when you think you see a faint blush crossing his cheeks. 

 

“Yes she is,” Mycroft says. He meets your eyes and your face softens. 

 

“I think she'd like a kiss now Uncle Mycroft,” Hamish says cheekily as he swings his legs back and forth underneath the table.

 

_“Hamish!”_ you cry, before you let out a splutter of laughter.

 

“I”- Mycroft begins. 

 

“She deserves a kiss doesn't she?” 

 

Mycroft nods. Then, despite the fact that this is not the way things are done in this house he rises from his chair and crosses the room towards you. Your breath catches in your throat at his determined gaze and your body turns towards him instinctively. Your damp hands splay against his chest as he presses the most delicate of chaste kisses against your lips. 

 

“That wasn't a proper kiss Uncle Mycroft!” Hamish laughs. 

 

Mycroft barely draws back from you, meeting your eyes and trapping you with his body to the sink. He leaves you in no doubt of what you'd both be doing right now if Hamish weren’t there, before he finally pulls away from you. 

 

You swallow. 

 

“Can you tell me a story now Uncle Mycroft? Using the figures? Daddy said that he's really good at telling stories, but Father says that he embellishes them. You won't embellish yours will you Uncle Mycroft?” Hamish asks, peering at Mycroft owlishly. 

 

“Ah, well, F/N's really the storyteller here, perhaps she could?”- He looks across at you hopefully. 

 

You swallow, still recovering from earlier and nod. Mycroft and you swap places. 

 

After lunch [“Daddy said that spaghetti looks like worms, but Father said it looks more like intestines,” Hamish says, making Mycroft and you exchange an exasperated, but fond look with one another] you all go into the living room and get settled down in front of Hamish’s favourite Disney film- _Peter Pan._

 

You deliberately snuggle up in the armchair so that Hamish and Mycroft will be forced to sit on the settee together. You stare at them, watching them more than the film. You analyse how Mycroft's tall and authoritative figure looks next to Hamish's smaller one. Watch how they both sit there straight-backed, Hamish inching forwards in his seat every time a favourite moment comes on. Watch how Mycroft's lips purse as he no doubt finds fault with the film, but tries to suppress himself for Hamish's sake and possibly because he doesn't want to make you angry. You smile, thinking that you could be watching Mycroft and your own child one day. In fact you smile and smile at them until finally you fall asleep. 

 

Hamish looks at you halfway through the film. He lets out a breath. Mycroft's eyes go across to you too, and as Hamish looks up at his uncle he notices how the older man's face seems to soften, how light seems to filter through his eyes and how the most tender of smiles appears on his face just by looking at you. 

 

“She’s happy now isn't she?” Hamish asks in a hushed tone. 

 

Mycroft puts one of his large hands on Hamish's shoulder. “Yes, yes I think she is,” he smiles.

 

*

 

When you wake it's to find that the television's off and the room's empty. 

 

Soft voices float out of the kitchen. You head towards them. 

 

“When you said that we could make F/N happy with the pirate ship what did you mean?” Hamish asks. You freeze out of sight, awaiting Mycroft’s answer. 

 

_“Ah,”_ your boyfriend says, and there comes a clink of cutlery tapping against each other, “I suppose I meant that I felt she might be happy if she were to see us getting along.”

 

You swallow. You can picture Hamish's brow furrowing. 

 

“Is that why she looked happier when the film was on?” he asks. You hear Mycroft hum in response. “Still,” Hamish adds, “I wish that she hadn't fallen asleep right during the best bit.”

 

There's a bit of a pause. You wonder if you should go in, but-

 

“Well sometimes-sometimes if we've been worrying, or thinking about something particularly hard then it can take a lot out of us, I expect that’s why…” Mycroft trails off, and you picture his eyes chinking with sadness and his mind filling up with overwhelming thought. 

 

“Is she worried because she doesn't know where children are from and she's trying to figure it out?” Hamish asks, and you have to raise your fingers to your lips to stop a gurgle of watery laughter leaving them. 

 

You picture Mycroft swallowing, before he says, “No, no it's not that”-

 

“I've been good today haven't I Uncle Mycroft? So she can't be worried about that,” Hamish comments suddenly. 

 

Mycroft thinks about the shoe incident, the mess in the kitchen, the running about like a wild thing in the garden and finds that all he can say is, “Yes, yes you have.”

 

“So what's she worried about then? I'm sure if F/N and you had a child they'd be good for you too. If _only_ you could find one…” Hamish muses matter-of-factly.

 

Another gurgle nearly escapes you and tears threaten to leak out of your eyes. You let out a shuddery breath at the exact same moment you hear Mycroft letting out a frustrated one in the kitchen.

 

“I'm afraid you don’t understand Hamish…this matter, it's-it's more complicated than any of that”-

 

_“Why?”_

 

You step closer to the kitchen, holding your breath. 

 

“Because even if-even if F/N and I knew where the children were, then I couldn't-I couldn't allow her to bring one back”-Hamish gasps, whilst your body nearly trembles-“Some people,” Mycroft goes on with trepidation in his voice, “Some people like me, just aren't the right sort of people to have children”-

 

“I heard Daddy say that Father felt that way to Molly, before they had me,” Hamish says. You swallow, feeling a little better. You swipe at your eyes. “But Molly said that sometimes we get what we truly need rather than what we think we want. I don't know what that means, but perhaps _you_ do.”

 

Mycroft thinks of you and of how he'd never wanted anyone in that way, before you. He thinks of the way you've affected him. “Miss Hooper is very wise,” he murmurs, looking down thoughtfully.

 

A silence comes and you step into the kitchen, deciding to announce your presence. 

 

“Ah,” Mycroft says, his face lighting up a little as soon as he sees you. 

 

“Sorry about falling asleep,” you say, joining them where they're eating fish fingers and chips by the table and instinctively sitting on Mycroft’s lap when you see that he looks sad. You wrap an arm around his neck and he blinks up at you in surprise, steadying you by applying one hand to your waist. “Did you find everything all right?” you ask your boyfriend, nodding to his dinner. 

 

“Oh yes,” Mycroft says, but-

 

“Uncle Mycroft was going to cook all these horrible vegetables with potatoes”- Hamish begins. 

 

“Yes, well, I'm sure F/N doesn’t need to hear about all that,” Mycroft says with an embarrassed smile, shifting his position underneath you.

 

“But then I made him look in the freezer and he found those,” Hamish continues, happily nodding to the fish fingers and chips. “He was going to add peas”- the little boy adds with a grimace-

 

“Oh Mycroft you _weren't,”_ you say, pretending to be appalled now, which makes Hamish laugh. You playfully brush a hand through Mycroft's hair. 

 

“Five a day my dear”- Mycroft splutters, looking anxious as if he genuinely thinks that he might have done something wrong.

 

“I'm only teasing,” you say, “Though I did tell you that I’d bought the fish fingers and chips and put them in the freezer for today didn't I?” 

 

Mycroft looks suddenly embarrassed, “It must have got erased amongst all the other data,” he mumbles. You hum knowingly, before you wrap your arms around him and peck him quickly on the nose. Hamish's face wrinkles. Mycroft smiles at you. But suddenly feeling rather sad as you look into those blue eyes you find that you can't smile back. You move off his lap and onto a chair. 

 

Mycroft looks at you. He knows that you’re unhappy again, but he doesn't know what to do.

 

Hamish must sense your declining mood too, for he says, “Peter Pan was really good. We could always go back and show you the bits you missed.”

 

A brief smile graces your face. “Oh no love, that's all right.”

 

Hamish frowns at his plate, and for a moment you wonder if Mycroft's managed to slip in some peas there after all. But then in the next moment he looks back up at you and says, “You're sad about the”-

 

Mycroft hurriedly clears his throat, “Hamish and I were just discussing the morality behind Peter Pan over our dinner, weren't we Hamish?”

 

Hamish and you both shoot Mycroft a puzzled look. You frown, wishing that Mycroft wouldn't lie to try and avoid the issue, even with Hamish present. Mycroft gives a delicate tap to his nephew's foot with his shoe. 

 

“Y-Yes,” the boy says apprehensively. 

 

You feel disappointed. “And what was the conclusion?” you ask, as you steal one of Mycroft's chips off his plate. 

 

“You can get your own,” Mycroft frowns at you, “I left enough in the”-

 

“I'd rather just steal yours,” you interrupt, taking another. 

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes and pushes his plate closer to you so that you can share properly. If he can’t do anything else then he can at least make you happy with food. 

 

“We learnt that it's important to let our minds be wide open and not to be so stuck in our ways, didn't we Uncle Mycroft?” Hamish announces. 

 

Mycroft lets out an embarrassed cough and jerks his head forwards embarrassedly. 

 

You can't help but smile again, feeling grateful that Hamish hasn't let the real issue go as easily as Mycroft has. “That sounds like a lesson we can all get behind,” you say. 

 

Mycroft frowns. 

 

*

 

Mycroft sticks to the armchair when you all return to the living room after dinner. Hamish and you occupy the settee. 

 

You put some cartoons on to begin with, though Hamish quickly assures you that he'd much rather watch a documentary about the First World War instead. 

 

Once the channel’s changed you lean back and the boy nestles against you, resting his head against your arm, whilst his eyes reflect the black and white trenches. You feel pleased, but a little tense too, and you deliberately avoid Mycroft’s eyes. 

 

Mycroft watches both Hamish and you consideringly, paying more attention to the pair of you than the documentary that’s on screen. He knows that you still want marriage and children. But even today, even after little Hamish, he feels most ill equipped and incapable of giving them to you. It would be true to say that he's closer to the edge of doing so, but he can't just seem to make the leap. 

 

The documentary goes on and slowly both Hamish and you lie back together until the boy's asleep in your arms. 

 

Mycroft sighs and stands up. He goes to fetch a blanket. 

 

Once it's draped over you both and he's just standing there as if he's guarding the pair of you, he looks at the clock. It's a quarter-to-eight. John will be there soon. At the beginning of the day Mycroft had expected himself to feel relieved and happy about getting to this point, but now he just wishes that the boy could stay so that he could avoid having the inevitable conversation with you. He sighs and goes to pack up Hamish's things. He's just put the bee rucksack and the pirate ship box down by the side of the settee when the doorbell sounds. Eight o' clock. John’s there. 

 

“Ah Mycroft,” John says, looking relieved as soon as the door is open. 

 

“Yes, I”- Mycroft runs a hand through his hair. He doesn't quite know how to explain it so he just leads John through to the living room instead. 

 

John lets out a soft breath when he sees Hamish and you. “Well,” he says, “He's certainly taken to F/N.”

 

Mycroft hums and shifts his position awkwardly. 

 

“What about you?” John asks. 

 

“Hmm?”

 

“Did he take to you all right?”

 

“Oh, yes, we er, we seemed to get on okay,” Mycroft says, coming off as a little flustered as his hand jumps up to fidget with his hair. 

 

John frowns. “Is everything all right?”

 

Thankfully Mycroft's saved from having to answer by Hamish whose eyes flicker open. 

 

“Daddy!” he squeals as soon as he sees John. He jumps up, nearly trips over the rucksack and box and hurls himself into John’s arms. 

 

“Hey sweetheart, did you have a good day?” John asks. 

 

Hamish nods enthusiastically; “Uncle Mycroft was a bit moody at first”-Mycroft clears his throat and fidgets awkwardly. John smiles embarrassedly-“But then he turned out nice after all and guess what he gave me?” John shakes his head. Hamish turns around and heaves up the box into his arms, before he turns back to John. “Open it!” he says imploringly. 

 

John flips back the flaps of the cardboard box tentatively. “Is that”-

 

“Just a little pirate ship and a few figures that Sherlock used to own when he was a boy,” Mycroft says dismissively as if it's no big deal. 

 

John straightens up, “That's-that's very kind of you, thank you,” he says, taking the box from Hamish and beginning to lead the way out.

 

Hamish slips on his rucksack and follows after him. 

 

“Oh, it's no bother,” Mycroft replies, walking behind them both. 

 

“Uncle Mycroft and I played with them earlier, but then I wanted a story and Uncle Mycroft's not good at those so he got F/N to tell me one instead,” Hamish says. 

 

John turns around by the door and looks at Mycroft questioningly. Hamish turns around too with a smile.

 

“Well, erm, thanks for that, a-and for today,” John says, clearly struggling now to picture the British Government and his son playing, “Tell F/N when she wakes up that I'm sorry I missed her won't you?” he adds. 

 

Mycroft nods. Then, feeling as if he should be giving Hamish more of a goodbye, he bends down and offers his hand to the boy. Hamish shakes it sincerely. “Well,” Mycroft tells his nephew, “Take care won't you Hamish? A-And be good for your parents.” He straightens up to find that John is looking at him strangely. 

 

The doctor steps back, frowns and steps forwards again, scrunching up his face. “Are you sure that everything's all right?” he asks. 

 

“Oh yes, quite fine,” Mycroft hums. 

 

Hamish pulls on his daddy’s coat. “It's because of the baby thing Daddy,” he says. John looks at him. 

 

_“Huh?”_ John looks puzzled.

 

“It's nothing,” Mycroft attempts to explain, “He's just got this very curious”-

 

“Father and you were wrong Daddy,” Hamish says as if it should be obvious, “You thought that Uncle Mycroft and F/N know where babies come from but they don’t. That’s why F/N's really sad. Uncle Mycroft's trying not be sad but he is too because he can't make it better.” 

 

John clears his throat and both Mycroft and he avoid each other's eyes. “I'm sure they know sweetheart”-

 

“But they don't,” Hamish cries, tugging on John's arm insistently, “They don't!” 

 

“Perhaps we should go,” John mutters. Mycroft nods, thinking that's a very good idea. “Say goodbye to your uncle Hamish.”

 

“But Daddy”- 

 

“We'll talk about this later sweetheart, but we need to go. _Look_ your Uncle Mycroft's tired from all you've put him through”-

 

“He's only tired because he's sad”- Hamish pleads. 

 

“ _Later_ Hamish,” John growls.

 

Hamish lets out a sigh that’s reminiscent of all the ones his uncle had been releasing earlier that day. Then, with his shoulders down and resentful eyes he gives Mycroft a quick hug and says sullenly, “Goodbye Uncle Mycroft.”

 

“Goodbye Hamish,” Mycroft says, feeling oddly cold and miserable when the boy turns away from him. He watches as John and Hamish depart. Then he turns back and heads into the living room. 

 

You're still asleep. He sits down beside you, hoping that he might be able to have a moment's peace to collect his thoughts. 

 

At the feel of him sinking into the settee however you come alive again. “H-Hamish?” you question, your fingers moving around as if to grasp at the little boy, whilst you blink sleepily.

 

“He's gone,” Mycroft swallows, wincing a little when his voice comes out harsher than he'd intended. 

 

_“Oh,”_ you say disappointedly, and Mycroft's heart clenches painfully in his chest when you shuffle further away from him. 

 

“I don't think all this today was a good idea,” he begins, but before he can go on any further you frown, push the blanket off you and leave the room. 

 

He follows you to the kitchen. 

 

“It makes you sad,” he says, standing by the entranceway and watching as you pour some tap water into a glass for yourself. 

 

You turn around and the glass trembles somewhat between your fingers as you look at him. “Yes,” you say, sounding angry, “It does make me sad when the man w-who I love most in the world won't commit to me.”

 

Mycroft feels puzzled, “I thought this was about marriage and children, not”- you squeeze the glass tighter-“F/N, you’re going to”- he says about a split-second before the glass breaks in your hand and shatters to the floor.

 

You let out a cry of pained anguish and Mycroft darts forwards. 

 

“I can handle it,” you say without looking at him, before you sink down on the floor. 

 

“Did any of the glass”-

 

“I _said_ I can handle it.”

 

Mycroft swallows and moves back and forth uncertainly in place as if he's a scarecrow being blown about in the wind. He watches with a furrowed brow as you attempt to collect all the shards of glass together with only your hands. “At least use a brush and pan”-

 

“I'm fine”-

 

“Don’t be silly,” Mycroft says, coming over and collecting the kitchen towel on his way. He bends and begins to mop up the water with it. You let out a bit of a choked laugh and he looks at you. “I meant what I said earlier, about loving you”-

 

You let out a muffled sound and nod, before you stand up and raise your hand to your mouth. Tears leak out of your closed eyes-

 

“You're bleeding,” Mycroft murmurs, full of concern, as he abandons his work and stands up too.

 

“It's nothing,” you mumble, flexing your bloodied hand as you open your eyes again. 

 

Mycroft eyes you cautiously, steps carefully over the wreckage and ends up almost being right pressed against you. He lets out a bit of a gasp. You let out a bit of a breath as he takes your bloody, shaking hand in his. He lifts it up and bends his head, inspecting the damage. A thin cut curves between your thumb and finger, snaking its way towards the centre of your palm. “It needs to be washed,” he murmurs, twisting you carefully around with his hand on your waist and turning the tap on. Slowly he pulls your hand underneath it. You hiss as the cool water comes into contact with your wound, making it sting. “Shh my love, it's okay,” he murmurs.

 

You grit your teeth and nod. 

 

He turns your hand this way and that, making sure its been washed fully, before he finally switches the tap off. You let out a relieved breath and slump down. He twists you back around to face him and passes you the cream hand towel. 

 

“Dry it gently on this,” he says, “I'll fetch you a bandage”-

 

“I just need a plaster.” 

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “A plaster might hurt more when it comes off. It'll be less painful and better protected this way.”

 

You swallow and nod, feeling a little teary again from how seriously he's taking this. He goes clambering back over the wreckage. You watch as he goes across to the far cupboard where the medical supplies are kept. He stretches up to get to the box, before he takes it over to the kitchen table. You make to move but-

 

“Stay there,” he tells you firmly, “I don't want you getting hurt again. This won't take long.”

 

You sigh a little and stay in your tiny area, watching as Mycroft frowns into the open first aid kit. Finally he seems to decide on a bandage and comes back to you. You lift up your hand for him and he wraps it delicately around, his head bending down and his hair brushing against your chest. 

 

“Is that”- he checks, his eyes flicking up to yours. 

 

“It's fine,” you tell him. 

 

He nods and secures it with a knot. “Perhaps you can go into the living room? I’ll make us some tea and clear this up.”

 

You nod and allow him to help you gently over the wreckage, before you do as he wishes. 

 

He joins you ten minutes later carrying two mugs of steaming hot tea. He sits down beside you and the two of you spend a rather uncomfortable moment in silence, both of you wondering what to say. 

 

“Thanks for the bandage,” you say, waving your hand in the air a little awkwardly. 

 

Mycroft hums. “I'm sure if Hamish had seen you with that then he would have thought you were a real pirate,” he says, before he fidgets once he realizes what he's said. You squeak. “F/N,” Mycroft attempts, “What you said earlier”-

 

“It's about marriage and children, of course it is, but…” you run your hand through your hair automatically, before you stop once you remember that it's your bandaged hand and frown. “But,” you go on, turning more towards Mycroft with a bit of a desperate look about your face, “Everyone around us seems to be moving forwards in some direction, have you noticed? Greg's back with his wife, Molly is with a really nice, sweet guy and I'm sure that they’ll be announcing their engagement any day now, Sherlock and John have got Hamish and”-

 

“We've got each other, isn't that enough?” Mycroft asks, “Why do we have to put a label on it? What is it about children that's so appealing to you?” He huffs out a breath and looks away from you. 

 

You cup at his face with the hand that’s not bandaged and bring it back towards you. Mycroft swallows and still tries to avoid your eyes. “It's not that I don't love you Myc, or that I believe that you don't love me”-

 

“Then”- 

 

“I heard you talking to Hamish at dinner,” you reveal, letting go of him. 

 

_“Ah,”_ Mycroft shifts his position. 

 

You send him a calculating look. “What did you mean when you said that you don't think you're the right sort of person to have children?” A beat passes between you. “Sherlock's managed it.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft begins, “But Sherlock doesn't have to work half as long as I do.” You frown and look down. “Think about it F/N. Truly, honestly think about it with more than just your heart. Would a child have a good life with us? Would it be happy having me barely around? Would it be fair of me to put all that responsibility on you? To put you through all the difficult times? To know that it could quite frankly drive us apart?” He looks up at you as he finishes.

 

You look at him. “Is that what's bothering you?” 

 

He moves close to you and you cup his face with your hands. He bows his head and just breathes you in for a moment. “A lot of things bother me,” he says, and the calm, matter-of-fact way that he does so makes a shiver run through you. “But all I know is that I don't want anything to come between us, to affect the way we are now.” You shuffle closer and massage his hair with your hands, your bandaged one bumping against it awkwardly. “What sort of father would I make F/N? You know I've got this coldness in my heart that I can't always”-

 

“Shh,” you mutter, pecking at his lips, “Shh.” He kisses you sloppily and then he buries his head in your shoulder, breathing hard. You work your fingers through his hair. He nestles his face into your collarbone. “I wish you'd just told me this,” you say, “Instead of just telling me that you don't want them, I wish you'd just _explained.”_

 

He pulls back from you. “I'm sorry,” he breathes, “I know you liked having Hamish around today, and I know that you were happy, but I just don't think I can give something like that to you long term.” You swallow, still toying with his hair. He looks up at you, trying to see what's going through your mind. “I want to, you understand, it's just me…I'm not right,” he says.

 

“Not right?” you murmur, “Myc you did really good today. Okay at first you were”-you pull a face-“But then, giving him that pirate ship, that was”-you take a breath-“That was really sweet of you. In fact, I know it wasn't perfect, but I think we _both_ did really good today.”

 

“Even so”- he looks at you. 

 

You push your head down by his shoulder. You can tell that you're not going to get anywhere with him tonight, so, in an attempt to bring the conversation to an end, at least for now, you murmur, “But maybe you're right. Maybe we're okay as we are, maybe we should just wait a while.” 

 

“So, we're going to wait?” Mycroft checks. 

 

“Mmmhmm,” you say. You feel miserable even as you say it. You press your head more insistently against Mycroft's shoulder, feeling glad that he can't see your face even though he can probably sense the sadness that’s radiating from you. He kisses the top of your head. You find that you can't bear it any more. You clear your throat and sit up properly. “I-I think I’ll go to bed now, get an early night.”

 

“Okay,” he says, and your eyes dart up to his anxiously. You can tell from that one word and the seriousness that shines in his eyes that he knows you’re only pretending to be content with things. He knows you're still sad. You swallow and nod at him awkwardly, before you leave the room. 

 

Mycroft sighs. He really does need a drink. 

 

*

 

You come home nearly three weeks later from work to find that Mycroft's home if the umbrella in the stand by the door is anything to go by, and if you're correct then judging by the fact that the umbrella is merely damp when you brush your fingers against it he's been home a while. You frown. _Odd._ Your heart sinks a little as you wonder if he's got to go away. You look around. He's nowhere to be seen. “I'm back!” you call, tugging your bedraggled and rain-soaked coat off. To think that it's supposedly getting closer to summer too. You let out a bit of a sigh. 

 

You hear a muffled response from upstairs as you go to hang your coat up. You swallow and toss your hair about a bit. Then, having no desire to go upstairs and get the bad news, you walk into the kitchen, wondering if Mycroft's made a start on dinner. If he has then perhaps there will no bad news after all, but if he hasn't then-he hasn't. You sigh. Suddenly you notice that there's an envelope on the table. As you go across to it you notice that its got a question mark on its front. _Odd._ You turn it around and carefully pull out the piece of paper that's inside. On it is a clumsy drawing of the floor plan of the house. There’s an ‘x’ in red in the bedroom. The whole thing looks like its been drawn by a child. You frown. But then you hear the clattering of feet on the stairs-feet that definitely don’t belong to Mycroft; you'd recognize his careful tread anywhere-and you turn around. 

 

Hamish barrels his way towards you. “You found it! You found it! You found the map!” he squeals excitedly as he stops breathlessly in front of you. 

 

You frown at him, wondering what on earth's going on. “Hamish, what are you going on about?” you ask, “And what are you doing here? Where are your parents?”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Hamish says, tugging at your sleeve, “F/N, you found the map of happiness.”

 

“Huh? The map of… _what?”_ you ask. 

 

Hamish tugs at your arm more persistently. “The map of happiness,” he repeats, “Uncle Mycroft said that if you follow it, then in time, it will lead to everything you want.”

 

Your lip quirks upward. “Where’s your uncle?” you ask. 

 

Hamish makes a sound of frustration. “That’s what I've been trying to tell you,” he says. Finally, clutching at the map still, you allow yourself to be dragged toward the stairs. 

 

Hamish and you pause when you get to them, staring at the pink rose petals, which now cover the blue stair carpet and which weren't there before. 

 

You swallow. 

 

“I told you,” Hamish says, looking up at you, “If you follow the map you can get anything.”

 

You try to smile at him and his enthusiasm, but your lips feel dry and your heart's beating all unsteadily. 

 

Hamish takes your hand and leads you upstairs. You feel a little dizzy in anticipation. Once you reach the bedroom door Hamish takes the map from you, pushes the door open and steps aside. 

 

Mycroft stands there by the bed waiting for you. He, with his neatly combed hair, white shirt, yellow tie and grey, pinstriped three-piece suit, looks as handsome as ever, and oddly nervous. He smiles, nods at you and holds his hands out. You step past Hamish and go across to Mycroft, slowly slipping your hands into his. He gives them a quick squeeze. You let out a nervous breath. 

 

“I've been doing a lot of thinking about what happened the day Hamish came and what we talked about that night,” Mycroft begins tentatively and you stare hard at him. “It occurred to me,” he steps closer to you, “That despite all my reservations everything you want to happen will work out after all.” Your heart skips a beat. “Do you know why?” You swallow and shake your head. Your hands shift against his. “It'll work,” he murmurs, “For the same reason everything in our relationship has always worked. It'll work because of you.” You let out a breath. Mycroft gives you a quick knowing smile, before he looks around you at his nephew. “Hamish, do you have it?”

 

You look around intrigued. Hamish nods and scurries towards you both, pulling a toy clam out of his pocket and passing it to Mycroft. The boy steps back, even though he looks like he's dying to speak, and Mycroft nods at him gratefully, before he looks back at you. “Your very own treasure,” he murmurs, before he goes down on one knee. You let out a whoosh of breath, feeling like you might be sick or faint or both. Mycroft still holds one of your hands in his and he strokes at it for a moment, before he holds it firmly. “F/N,” he says, looking at you imploringly, “You have always, _always_ brought something different into my life, and somehow you have transformed this crotchety old man into someone who can think about and feel things that they never expected to. You have added a whole new dimension of understanding and light into my life, and I have met you kicking and screaming the whole way, simply because I was scared"-you let out a watery giggle-"I am _still_ scared. Scared at just thinking about what might be to come in our future. But as long as I’ve got you guiding me then, I know that there is less reason to be afraid, less reason to fear the unknown. So, my dear”-you can feel the weight of every word-“With that in mind, would you do me the great honour of marrying me?” He flicks the clam open to reveal the most beautiful engagement ring. It's as shiny as a pearl. 

 

You feel breathless and quite unable to speak, but somehow, with Mycroft looking like he's barely breathing himself as he looks up at you, you manage to get out, “Yes! Yes!” You let out a watery laugh.

 

Mycroft stands up on shaky legs, chuckling in relief, whilst you laugh, and somehow he slips the ring onto your finger at the same time. You barely get a chance to look down at it, before he wraps his arms around you and crushes his lips to yours. 

 

“That's a proper kiss Uncle Mycroft!” Hamish whoops approvingly, whilst he punches the air. 

 

You giggle against Mycroft's lips, before you pull away and look around. 

 

You see that John and Sherlock have now come by the entranceway to join Hamish. John puts a hand on his son's shoulder. 

 

“Right, now that you've finished using my son to achieve your own silly purposes brother, I think it's high time that I took him home”-

 

“ _Our_ son Sherlock,” John reminds his husband. 

 

“Don’t say a word John,” Sherlock huffs, “I still can't believe that you agreed to all of this.”

 

Mycroft and you turn back to each other, still both amazed and still laughing a little. “I found out where children come from too,” your fiancé whispers huskily into your ear. 

 

A blush forms on your cheeks as you look at him. He eyes you in a predatory fashion, before he swoops upon you once more. 

 

You let out a groan into the open-mouthed kiss, before you wave a hand towards the others, telling them to go. Mycroft chuckles dirtily into your mouth and you grab onto his arms as your head spins. 

 

“Right, definitely going now, come Hamish,” Sherlock says, dragging his son into the landing and towards the stairs. 

 

“But _Father!”-_ Hamish protests.

 

“Congratulations,” John says with an awkward nod, not that Mycroft and you notice because you're too busy groaning into each other's mouths. John quickly scurries out. 

 

“Mmm, thought they'd never leave,” Mycroft says, wrenching his head away from yours, before he tugs off your cardigan with quick, impatient fingers, “Now come, I believe we've got some celebrating to do.”

 

With that you both fall onto the bed. For once in your life you don't argue.


End file.
